Stocking Doane's Pond

In dawnlight we tilt the barrels,
trout lying deflated like lost
lost theatre gloves. Exhaling
stalewater their gills move
in practiced circles; their eyes
of scattered sequins are fixed
into upward stares.
Released, they glide
into the same flat splash,
their underbellies kaleidoscopic,
their indolence propelling them
to the farthest points. They mew
the surface and pick mayflies
that skim the water. At night
conspire, crest over
the fluted ripples, and at
the moon's windwish shatter
reflections, jigsaw the whole shorescape,
and double the trees and dock.
When we wake, sloe-eyed
and stumbling, we gaze into
our own severed faces.